Nothing Changes
by Plymouthdodgewrecks
Summary: Murderface is tired. Fed up. Done. My first real story, apologies on the complete lack of quality and amateur writing. Rated T for gratuitous profanity.


**This is my first true venture into writing. I'm aware that my writing is very amateur, but understand that I am just starting out with writing. Thanks for any constructive criticism you can leave in reviews, and my apologies if there are any mistakes with my story.**

Murderface's mouth stretched strangely into a grin as the season one marathon for his favorite television show began. He put his right leg across his left knee, put his arms back behind his head, and sighed as he leaned back on the couch. Before the show began, however, the door to the next room over opened up. Skwisgaar walked out, looking smug as ever and zipping up his pants as the pleasured moans of countless woman came from behind him.

"Ahs, you knows, Moidaface, there ams nothing quites likes seesings to da needs of da ladies, ams I right?"

Murderface simply grunted and waved a hand at Skwisgaar, motioning for him to show before his show began.

"Oh yeahs," he laughed, "I guess yous wouldn'ts really knows, ah?"

Murderface cocked his head over at the Swede, squinting with a soul-piercing gaze.

"Schkwischgaar, I don't think you fucking realizche how fucking important is isch for me to schee thisch."

Skwisgaar flipped back his hair as he took a seat next to Murderface.

"You knows, I could gives you ones of my ladies if you wants. Dat ams, of courses, if she ams not killed bys your face." He chuckled at his own joke, smiling at his wonderful ability to tell such original gutbusters.

"You know, Schkwischgaar," Murderface retorted, "I can find a woman myschelf schould I scho deschire."

Skwisgaar tried as best he could to hold in the laughter, but in seconds he was guffawing all over the room. "Hahs! Yeahs right, Moidaface, yous dicks looks like da cauliflowers!"

Murderface repeated the sentence he had to so very often use.

"I happen to play bassch with it!"

Skwisgaar got up and began to head out. "Well, sorries Moidaface, but the jealousies is toos strongs in here for me to stays much longers."

Murderface stood up as well. "I'm schorry, Schkwischgaar, but no, I'm not jealousch of you, becausche frankly, having Schweden's biggescht whore asch my mother and not scho much asch even knowing my father'sch name doeschn't scheem like schomething to be jealousch about!"

Skwisgaar's eyes wided as he flinched. "Heys! At least my moms didn't produce suchs an ugly child! AND at leasts my dad didn't go and fuckings murders my mom!"

He barely had time to finish the sentence. The second that the second "M" in "Mom" was out of his mouth and in Murderface's ears, there was one large, hairy hand around Skwisgaar's neck and thrusting him into the wall. Skwisgaar reached up to his neck, desperatly trying to free himself from Murderface's iron grip, but it was no use. He could breathe, but he certainly couldn't speak against the injustice of having such a disgusting thing on his wonderful neck.

Murderface's eyes narrowed, his eyebrows so low that his forehead took up half of his head. "Schkwischgaar, my dad may have been a fucked-up pschychopath, but at leascht my mom didn't fuck around with scho many guysch that the poschbility of scho much as finding a father isch imposchible. You schay how much you hate your mother for being scho fucking promischcousch, yet you do the exact schame thing. I don't have the reputation of being a whore becausche I'm ugly as all schit. I underschtand this, but between you and everyone elsche on thisch fucking piss planet, it'sch hard to fucking live with scho many people laughing at my fache. You think you're scho amazching becausche you have orgiesch with our fansch all the fucking time, but no, it makesch a whore, which is exchactly what you hate your mom for."

And with that, he pulled back from the wall, the blonde still in his grasp. Skwisgaar desperately kicked around, trying to get out. Murderface pulled his arm back, flung it forward, and released Skwisgaar, who slammed down to the floor, knocking him out and barely avoiding a concussion.

All the times that Murderface had joked to the others about how "Maybe it would be better if I juscht killed myschelf", he knew he would never do it. It was the coward's way out. "Gay", he would call it. Sometimes, though, things got overbearing. He wanted to leave the Earth sometimes. Incessant taunting about his face, his lisp, his parents. It started when he became a student in school, and continued even as he became part of the most successful form of entertainment on Earth.

He slammed the door to his room and dropped himself onto his bed. His mind raced. If his mother had survived, if his father hadn't been insane, if his face wasn't formed the way it was, if his lisp did not exist...Would things be different? Would he not have to put on the shell of an ignorant, disgusting, unfriendly man? But there wasn't a way to fix that. Plastic surgery simply wouldn't work on his impossibly awful face. There was no hope, things would continue the way they were. He knew that if he died, the others wouldn't care. They would continue on, because why would anyone miss Murderface? But suicide was the coward's way out. Even if sometimes, he did feel cowardly.

Everyone in Mordhaus heard it. The loud bang from Murderface's room. Louder than a simple knocked-over bookshelf, louder than anything else going on in the place. They all heard it.

Murderface always knew that the others would react to his death in a blank, emotionless way. He was correct. But it was not due to simply not caring. It was the shock. The shock that he was gone. The shock of their good friend's death, even if they would never admit what he truly was to them. It was a four-piece now.

Nathan couldn't say anything. He stood, entirely unmoving, looking down at the remains of his friend. Toki reverted to the state that he always entered when he saw his parents. Pickles' jaw hung open, his eyes screaming in disbelief. A single tear dropped from the eye of a certain man who never got to say sorry. Skwisgaar let out another tear, and another, and another.

The funeral was quiet. Ofdensen attempted to lead the ceremony, but it was hard to keep composure. His glasses were askew, his tie was crooked, his hair fell to his face in some places. He was a different man, and so was everyone in Dethklok. Even Knubbler, who's eyes were usually bright shades of green or red, were now a deep blue. Dethklok was broken. They didn't tour, they didn't write, they didn't play a single song.

For a mere few weeks, that is. Murderface wasn't entirely wrong about their reaction to his death. They went about their day within weeks, doing what they always did. Almost as if nothing had changed, nothing was different. Skwisgaar forgot about his guilt. The rest of the band simply...forgot. It was as if nothing changed.

Nothing changes.


End file.
